


Tasty and Hearty

by MMonster



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Biting, F/M, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27692248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MMonster/pseuds/MMonster
Summary: Smooth, warm and flavorful. An ecstasy of undertones, rich honeyed liquid, spiced and briny in its true form yet so sweet he thinks it should make his canines ache. His eyes shut in pleasure and his arms hold his catch close as surely as the jaws of a wolf trap a dying doe.This blood deserves to be savored.
Relationships: Willow Rosenberg/Spike
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!

Smooth, warm, and flavorful. An ecstasy of undertones, rich honeyed liquid, spiced and briny in its true form yet so sweet he thinks it should make his canines ache. It leaks steadily in his mouth, the flesh that relinquishes it tender under his lips. His eyes shut in pleasure and his arms hold his catch close as surely as the jaws of a wolf trap a dying doe. His sharp fangs sink further inside, raising the trickle to a stream. The sound that his throat releases is somewhere between a groan and a growl, animalistic satisfaction in its truest form.

His mind is blank, filled to the brim by sublime feeling. He allows the fiery nectar to flow out at its own pace, the artery pulsing just out of reach. He avoids nicking it.

This blood deserves to be savored.

And the noises she makes. Weak mewls of pain and protest. A whimper high in her throat. Words that become more and more garbled and indistinct. She squirms under him, searching for freedom, stubbornly refusing to accept her fate. It gets him throbbing. It gets him to make an unprecedented decision. He has eaten enough people to fill up a small nation. She’s the tastiest morsel he has ever laid a fang on.

“Bloody hell, Red! You’re a fucking revelation.” He exclaims, tearing himself from her jugular by pure force of will.

Willow isn’t in a state fit to answer, lying limply on the bed, bleeding now on the bedding. She’s awake, but barely. Spike can admire the way she still hopes for escape, lidded eyes moving to the door. He ransacks her bedside table, rips open a package of tissues, and presses some on her leaking wound. _What the bloody hell am I doing?_ He wonders, licking his lips as he watches the tissues turn red, insufficient makeshift bandages, but the best he can do at the moment. It’s not like Spike has much experience with stopping humans from bleeding out. Willow moans in pain when he presses harder against her neck.

“Don’t worry, pet. Change of plans. I won’t kill you tonight.” He reassures her suddenly, decision made with no more than half a thought. He holds her jaw so he can keep her steady as she tries to pull away from him. _Silly bint, can’t_ _you_ _see I’m trying to help?_ “You smell like a nummy treat, but you taste bloody amazing.” He explains. The indignant glare Willow sends him has him chuckling.

Spike has murdered many for their blood. Some he killed for the fun of it as well, and a spot of torture is occasionally a neat way to pass the time. But, in general, he’s a pragmatic vamp who enjoys having a warm meal and then getting his telly time. He’s not Angelus, whose every kill had to satisfy an arbitrary criteria of sadistic artistry. For Spike, most of his victims were a meal, killed for the unfortunate unluckiness of being on his way when he was feeling peckish.

This, however, is the first time he’s moved to let someone _live_ because of their blood. But the idea of never getting to taste the sublime ambrosia that is the liquid keeping this slip of a girl alive is a tragedy. You can’t just eat the best pizza in the world once. If you find it, you write down the pizza place and go back to it every week.

In this case, the pizza might need more than a week not to die by accident with more bloodletting. A shame, really.

The witch’s face is cool in his hand, but the blood-loss seems to be slowing at last. Spike caresses the silky skin under his thumb and talks to her, an unfamiliar energy rising in him, something straight out of Willow’s magical, pants-tightening, delightful blood. He turns her neck to get a look and is satisfied with the progress, but whitened, tiny marks on her otherwise unmarred skin call his attention.

“Harmony got you first, didn’t she? The dumb trollop has no clue what she had. Want to know a vampire tidbit, Red?” He smirks at the way her eyes slide from the door to land on him, begrudgingly giving in, unable to resist the curiosity of new knowledge.

He continues.

“When you’re first turned, all blood tastes the same. Tasty, and usually a fledgling can tell if it's spoiled or fresh, old or young, human or pig, but that’s it. It takes a vampire who has tasted every single flavor in the cookbook thrice to appreciate something special.” He makes a point to lick his lips lasciviously, staring into her eyes. She closes hers, brown furrowing in pain.

He’s still so hard the seam of his pants is uncomfortable. But his hunger is quelled. Willow’s blood is both tasty and hearty. He nearly sucked her dry, but he’s glad now that he stopped himself just in time that she’s likely to survive. The plan had been to turn her, but a vampire’s blood is lifeless, even if it’s still very much delectable. It pleases but it doesn’t feed.

“You, little witch, are a tasty treat. I want some for later.” He tells her, gleeful in a way he doesn’t remember feeling since before Brazil. “And I think it’s time for me to be on my way.” He adds, pulling the tissues back, satisfied to see her wound has scabbed over enough that it isn’t bleeding any more.

“Where?” Willow’s voice is so weak if it weren’t for the silent room even his vampiric ears would have missed it.

“Not for you to worry your pretty head about, Red.” He reassures. She’s still trying so hard to stay awake, a determined little kitten.

He moves Willow so she’s lying comfortably on the bed and pulls the covers over her, knowing the low blood-pressure will make her cold. Decades of practice caring for Drusilla in her bad days make the motions practiced and familiar. He fluffs her pillow, leaning over her. Her hair smells like floral shampoo and magic.

Stained with rapidly drying scarlet, her neck still calls to him. Willow whimpers when he licks at her wound, cleaning it like a particularly dangerous, big cat. It occurs to her if he were purring, it would make a bizarre kind of sense. Painful doesn’t feel like a strong enough adjective to describe the feeling in her shredded flesh. But the cool, wet tongue lapping around it makes shivers run up her spine.

If she had any strength left in her, she would try to get away from his mouth. It feels uncomfortable, she’s hyper-aware of every sweep of his tongue, the wet and slightly rough texture can be felt on the base of her brain. Alas, Spike finally pushes himself away from her, eyes gleaming with wicked glee and simmering greed. Fear still grips at her, but Willow is far too weak to do more than watch him, as he watches her.

“I could take you with me. Fancy a road-trip, pet? I could show you places. I can’t guarantee it would be pain-free for you.” Spike smirks at her, shameless. His hand catches a lock of fiery red hair. It’s silky on the pads of his fingers and he plays with it as he talks to her. “But we would get around.”

Willow struggles against the darkening edges of her vision.

“Please, no.” She manages to answer, eyes closing against her will.

When Willow was little and couldn’t sleep, her mom used to play with her hair. The association occurs to her just as she loses the battle to stay awake. The last thing she feels before going under is Spike’s hand burrowing in her hair, long fingers running along the strands with uncharacteristic gentleness. The soothing motion coupled with the exhaustion of blood-loss and post-adrenaline-crash pull Willow under as surely as the waves of the sea under a storm.

  
  


* * *

In the morning, she’s relieved to discover she’s still in her room, under the covers Spike pulled over her. Buffy is rummaging in her closet for clothes, but Willow knows what woke her up was the sunlight streaming through the edges of the drapes to land on her face, warm and familiar. _So,_ _I’m not a vampire_. The amount of pain she’s in, mostly on her neck and head, assures her she’s indeed alive.

She isn’t sure what it is that makes her answer Buffy’s good morning with one of her own, no added words. Or why, when the blonde asks, Willow says she isn’t getting ready because she will skip class today. She’s alright, just a little under the weather, she says. Will probably even go to her afternoon classes. And if Buffy can get some cafeteria orange juice back for her before going to class, all will be good.

Willow should warn Buffy about what happened, and she will. Spike has an invitation to their room now, and he is still after Buffy. But this morning, laying alone and aching in her bed, she doesn’t feel like putting salt in her own wounds. How stupid was it to invite someone in without knowing who? Where did all of the magical prowess Willow prides herself in so much disappear to when she was in mortal danger? How come all of the guys that come to their dorm are after Buffy, but settle for what Willow can offer?

Nonetheless, after Buffy leaves, Willow starts crying for the same reasons she has been for the last few weeks. The one person who came to their dorm for Willow and for her only is gone. Her friends are tired of her moping and can’t even pretend to listen to her anymore. She’s a bad witch whose spells go wrong more often than not; and bad isn’t even the right word, because she isn’t usually _trying_ to hurt people for selfish reasons. She’s incompetent, which generates its own flavor of inadequacy.

And the terrible thing is, aside from awkward hugs, handshakes and pats on the back, Spike is the only person who has touched Willow and meant it since before Oz left. The werewolf had been distant for weeks before the moon forced him to make a decision. There were a few nice moments in between, but the last time their relationship was truly good was a while back. She misses him desperately, and she misses his touch, misses snuggling with him in the mornings more than the warm sex they shared.

She gets all of her crying out, drinks some water because Buffy never came back with the juice, then puts on her big-girl-pants and concentrates on the motions of getting ready for class, even though standing up makes her dizzy and she feels like she could burst into tears again at any moment. Willow may be falling apart, but she will be dammed if she will let anyone else see it. She forces herself to tend to the red, angry wound on her neck. It’s only a little swollen and she doesn’t need stitches, but she doesn’t want to think about where Spike’s mouth was before biting her, or how many other necks he tasted the night before.

So, Willow gets her 70% alcohol hand sanitizer and skirts it on her neck, tapping it on the skin with a cotton ball. It stings horribly for a few seconds, but after repeating the process a couple more times, she’s relieved. _Infection possibly averted, check_. She mindlessly wonders if she can get an STD or a blood-transmitted disease from a vampire bite, and makes a mental note to research it later. Though, she guesses most people who get bit don’t survive the experience to later discover they got HIV from it, so there might not be a lot of material on the subject. She finishes getting ready while those and other semi-bizarre thoughts run through her mind.

When she studies the mirror over the sink near the door, the girl staring back at her is pale and has bags under her eyes. But her neck is covered with a pink turtle-neck and she applied enough make-up that there’s _some_ color on her cheeks. She forces a smile on her lips, testing how it looks in the reflection. Not convincing if someone were to pay attention, she concludes, but rarely anyone does. Aside from the deliberate choice of neck-hiding wear, this routine is no different than the many post-crying-her-eyes-out mornings Willow has had since Oz left. _At least_ _it was_ _practice_ , she consoles herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there's anyone out there still looking for Spillow.


	2. Chapter 2

Willow quickly walks down Sunnydale’s main avenue, back from a trip to the magic shop and hurrying to Giles’ place. Xander accompanies her, a big pastry box protectively cradled in his arms, which he acquired in the 10 minutes it took Willow to gather the ingredients she needed, pay for them and meet up with him in front of the Espresso Pump.

“Hm, nice smothering weather today, Wills. Perfect to walk at a near run.” Xander speaks, huffing at the exertion.

It’s been scorching hot all week in Sunnydale, so much so even Willow has given in to the weather’s demands and resigned herself to wear light skirts and the couple sundresses she owns. She was feeling particularly brave today, so she chose the skinny-strapped, white one. It has daises and was one of those Buffy-wouldn’t-stop-bugging-her-to-buy-it situations, but she secretly really likes it. It’s light and airy, but shows neither cleavage nor thighs, going down to her knees. It’s perfect for the heat.

“We are nearly out of time, Xander. The sun is almost out!” The redhead reminds her friend of the time-crunch for this specific spell she needs to cast. They have maybe half an hour before it’s dark and they have to wait for the daylight to cast it. Willow huffs, then walks resolutely towards a shortcut, which goes through a well-known alley that connects the two bigger avenues in Sunnydale.

“Yeah, okay, let’s get it done. Or, _you_ get it done while _I_ eat a jelly doughnut.”

“One’s mine!” Willow defends her claim, knowing it’s kind of hopeless. Regardless of how many jelly ones they get, someone always ends with none. Occasionally, Giles is the unlucky one, but mostly Willow is a little too slow on the uptake and has to eat a glazed doughnut instead.

The witch is rushing out of the alley and about to cross the street when she feels a shiver run through her, despite the heat. When she turns around, she’s alone.

“Xander?” She frowns, walking back to the apparently empty alley. “Xan? Where did you go?” She goes further in, worried about her friend.

There’s a chocolate glazed doughnut on the ground, near where the alley has a turn. Willow runs to it, finding the rest of them littered on the ground, Xander passed out near the ruined pastries.

“Xander!” She crouches close to him, automatically checking for wounds and making sure he’s still breathing. She runs a hand through his hair and it comes out red with blood from a small gash on the back of his head. He’s out, but that seems to be the worst of it. “Oh, Xander.” She laments.

“You’re a hard girl to make time with, Red.”

The voice comes from behind her, startling Willow half out of her skin. She jumps up, turning to glare at the figure lurking in the alley, half-sitting on a wooden box, cool and menacing in equal amounts.

“Spike!” She exclaims, surprised, dropping the paper bag of spell ingredients on the ground. “Did you do this?” Her voice trembles when she speaks. Anger straightens her back and narrows her eyes. “Did you hurt Xander?”

“Had to find a way to make some alone time with you, pet.” He gets up from his perch, walking towards her. The dark blue sky of twilight is harmless to him, it has been since the sun got low enough that it did nothing more than make his exposed skin itch.

“What? Why?” Willow asks, confused, backing away from him as the vampire strides near her. She forgets all about the walls of the alley until her back hits one. Spike gets closer and she readies herself to run.

“You uninvited me from your dorm.” He’s an arm’s length away from her. Willow feels her legs start to quiver. “That left me following you. But you’re always with this moron or the slayer.”

“Hey!” Willow is offended for Xander. “What do you want from me?” She asks, hoping he doesn’t want a repeat performance of what happened the last time he got her alone. Her neck aches with phantom pain, even though she has been fully healed for days now.

Spike smirks at her question, eyes flashing yellow even with his human mask still in place.

“I want another taste, love.” He reveals, relishing in the way her eyes widen and her mouth parts in surprise. “Did you think I lied to you, pet?”

“Ye-yes.” Willow stutters, heart thumping away in her chest, fear spreading through her veins like a disease. She struggles against the instinct to freeze, knowing her only chance is to run.

“I didn’t.” He states, dropping the smirk, game face revealing itself. He lunges.

Willow scrambles to the side, intent to run as fast as her legs can carry her. She manages to avoid his long arms and swears she can feel the ghost of his fingers closing around the space her arm just occupied. She’s at the mouth of the alley when his voice captures her as surely as chains.

“I will kill the git. Run away, and you can come back in the morning for the body of your friend, Red.” Spike promises, resting a leather boot over Xander’s chest, where he still lies down. 

Willow turns to him, mouth set as she sees him tower over the young man.

“Good kitty, now walk to me.” Spike smirks, clearly having the fun of his unlife. When Willow hesitates, he moves his boot to Xander’s neck, applying just enough pressure to make it look good. The girl’s eyes widen and she walks closer to him.

“Leave him alone!” Willow tells him. “Please.” She adds meekly at his raised eyebrow. Her heart is working double-time, terrified that he can break Xander’s neck with the right pressure.

“Back against the wall, Red.” He instructs, watching her intently. “Now turn around.”

“You will hurt him!” She protests, refusing to take her gaze away from Xander.

Spike compromises by resting his foot on the ground.

“I only want you, little witch. He will live.” His patience runs out when she still doesn’t turn, and instead of ordering her again, he lunges at the girl and manhandles her into position. “Might not say the same about you.” He finishes, finally leaning down to bury his fangs in the tender, unprotected skin of her neck.

She yelps in pain, but Spike ignores it completely, overcome by the intensity of pleasure he feels at getting to taste her again. His arms hold her to him tightly, one keeping her shoulders in place, the other going around her waist. He pushes forward until they hit the wall and uses the leverage to cage her in against his body. _Fuck_ _, this is heaven_. He thinks to himself, incapable of resisting the desire to sink a little further in her.

The girl cries out, heart beating like a humming bird’s. He vaguely registers the smell of salt when she starts crying. She squirms and whimpers, like the first time, but doesn’t say anything. No ‘please’, ‘no’, or ‘stop’. Willow stands in his arms and takes it like a good girl. Her blood tastes better than he remembers, if that’s possible, and her tight, young body encased in this cute summer number is really working for him.

Spike nearly sighs at himself in exasperation when he decides, yet again, she’s too tasty to die. Doesn’t mean he can’t take enough to leave the chit weak-legged for a few days. She had plenty of time to recover from their first encounter, elusive as she has been. And this is a moment to be savored. Not only her blood, though it’s the star of the show, but how her firm butt is rubbing against him in all the right ways as she instinctively attempts to squirm away. She’s no Drusilla, but only a moron would be blind her shy and plentiful charms. Innocent, big green eyes. Milky, smooth skin. Small and slender build.

Plus, she makes such charming sounds. Few things are more annoying than the sniveling of dying humans. However, on occasion, Spike comes across one who has a way of making it sound delicious. Those are usually the pretty, cute girls, like the one whimpering in his arms. Willow has the sounds down to an art. Just enough vulnerability in her whimpers to sound pained and vulnerable, but not pathetic. Her moans are the exact right kind of unwittingly erotic. Even when she screams, as he bites down harder on her, it’s a symphony of pleasure to his ears.

He gives in to impulse and unlatches from her neck just to bite down again, so she can make more of those pretty sounds. Though he’s careful not to do more damage than time and a few bandages can heal. Wouldn’t do to take a piece out of her neck and kill her by accident, as appealing as it may be to do just that. He’s throbbing in his trousers, and it’s even harder to resist the urge to kidnap the witch and have his way with her. But he wants her alive, and if he takes her, he won’t be able to stop himself. She will be dryer than the Sahara as soon as he’s feeling peckish again.

When she goes limp in his arms, blood-pressure slowing from the lack of blood, he begrudgingly pulls back. Not ready to let such a catch go just yet, Spike laps at her neck until her newest bites stop bleeding on their own. The scent of her envelops him in a mist of enjoyment, sweet, like vanilla, with an edge of spiciness, maybe cinnamon. The bitterness of perfume or body cream is lacking in the taste of her skin, and Spike wonders vaguely where the scents come from. They seem too specific to be natural, and there’s something else about how the little witch smells that is simply _her_. The idiosyncratic mixture of pheromones, skin and body odors that make this delectable scent so very particular.

Spike supports Willow’s slack body with his own, nuzzling at her neck in a depraved parody of a lovers’ caress. She stirs in his grasp, rising from the brief unconsciousness she slipped into. His arms tighten around her. It’s decided that she will get to live. But the demon in Spike isn’t ready to let her go just yet. His eyes close, mind blank but for the feel of her against him. The vampire breathes deeply and peppers kisses against her neck, relishing in the soft skin and the smooth hair-strands that tickle his face.

“Wh-what are you doing?” Willow stutters, dizzy and weak-limbed, vision swimming with dark spots. But awake and, somehow, alive.

Spike ignores her, involved in his task. He tastes the skin available to him, nibbling softly and avoiding the raw spots of her wounds. He can identify by touch the relief of his previous bite mark, which left a nice, identifiable scar. The one from Harmony’s bite is barely there, and the knowledge that the two new ones Spike just gave her will also make very permanent scars is nothing short of satisfying.

“You know when you have the last piece of chocolate?” Spike’s voice is low, a bit rough. He lets out an unnecessary sigh and seamlessly changes his attentions on Willow’s neck from one side to the other, planting a kiss on her nape on the way that makes her whole body tremble.

“You hold the very last piece, and you can’t get anymore for a while. So, you nibble on the edges.” He demonstrates on her, holding a tiny patch of her skin between blunt, human teeth. “You give it a few licks.” His tongue is rough, wet and soft against her skin. “Let it melt between your fingers.” He provokes, tightening his hold on her, making Willow aware of how much of her weight he’s supporting.

“Milky Way doesn’t talk back to me.” Willow whispers, focusing her strength on staying present. On answering the mass murderer she has wrapped around her like she’s a particularly cuddly stuffed bear.

Spike chuckles at her answer, gleeful and predatory.

“Yes, pet. That’s the weird thing about vampires.” He breathes in against her neck, nibbling on her some more. “Humans are food. You are what we used to be. You can also become one of us. Makes for the strangest dynamic in the natural and demon worlds, I gather. Nothing else quite like it.” Her blood calls to him. Her magic and her promising sensuality. Spike wants to drink, fuck, and kill her. She would be a glorious vampire.

The girl struggles to get her feet to support some of her weight, small hands clutching at her captor’s arms around her. Spike mourns the end of this moment, already excited at the thought of doing it again soon.

“Are you done?” The question, as low and pathetically as it’s whispered, carries a strength that catches the vampire off guard. He gives her a couple more nibbles before answering.

“Yeah.” Begrudgingly, he concedes, allowing his arms to fall to the side, he takes a step back from her.

Willow promptly collapses, and it’s all Spike can do to stop the chit from smashing her head open against the concrete ground as he catches her falling body. She has the gall to glare at him even as he helps her turn around and rest against the wall. She slides down and down until she’s limply sitting against it, parlor unnaturally pale but gleaming green eyes focused on the vampire towering over her.

“What do you want?” She asks him, trying to control her breathing, doing her best not to think about how much she _hurts_. Her neck, her limbs, something deep inside of her.

The blonde vampire shrugs, turning away from her to walk back a few paces. He settles himself on the top of a couple wooden boxes, lighting a cigarette with the metallic clink of his Zippo.

“I’ve told you, pet. You’re too tasty to kill.” He explains casually. Sated and unwilling to go back to his lair, where Harmony is probably waiting to shower him with more unbearably dull prattle, it seems to him that making some chit-chat with Willow is as nice an activity as any. Besides, as weak as she is and with the scent of her blood perfuming the air, she’s bound to attract other beasts, ones who won’t let her alive to taste again.

“Why are you still here? In Sunnydale, I mean.” The opportunity to get some information out of the vampire lends some strength to Willow’s voice. It has been over three weeks since the Gem of Amara confrontation, and Spike has stuck around and caused much less mayhem than his usual. He would be expected to at least get some vengeance on Buffy, but there have been no more than a couple attempts that ended in their usual impasse.

He shrugs, taking a deep inhale of his smoke. “Not sure why I’m sticking around. Maybe it’s all the hellmouthy energy, you know? Keeps things interesting. Plus, there’s always the possibility of bagging myself another Slayer.” He grins at her, fully aware of how disturbing the thought is to his audience. “And there’s you. The tastiest snack I’ve ever found. You should be honored.”

Willow huffs in refusal.

“Honored to have more holes than a pincushion? I don’t think so.” She responds.

He smirks at her dangerously.

“It’s the only thing keeping you alive, love.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette, then throws it on the ground and steps on it with his heavy boots. “The moron is awake, has been pretending for a little while now.” Xander opens his eyes to glare at the vampire, then grimaces and holds his head, clearly in pain. “It was a pleasure, Red.” He promises, perverse eyes glinting as they stay on her a moment more than necessary.

“Not for me.” Willow grumbles, relieved when the vampire strides out of the alley without looking back. She turns to Xander. “Are you okay?”

But her friend is busy staring at her neck, a frown on his face. He gets on his knees, then on his feet, and stumbles closer to her.

“Are _you_ okay?” He asks, expression full of concern as he crouches beside Willow, taking in her paleness and the slack way she’s supported against the wall.

“I will be okay, Xan. ‘m just tired.” She answers, taking a deep breath and trying not to succumb now that adrenaline and fear seem to be running out of her to leave her limbs hollow.

“God, Willow.” He laments, holding her chin softly to turn her head to the side and allow him to see the marks on her skin more clearly. “We need to get you to the hospital.”

“I’m alright, really. I just need to lie down.”

“No, you need a transfusion.” He painstakingly manages to get Willow upright by weaving an arm under hers, and pulling her arm until it’s over his shoulder. “Try to hold on, okay? We are not far.”

Willow nods, feeling sick to her stomach as the world tilts with the motion. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other and holding on to Xander’s shoulder. Who, for all of his worry about her, also isn’t faring all that well, if the hard set of his mouth and the cold sweat on his brow are anything to go by. Together, they stumble out of the alley, doughnuts and spell ingredients forgotten on the pavement.


	3. Chapter 3

Willow’s wrist aches, but she doesn’t slow down the repetitive motions of grinding the turmeric and shea into a paste. She huffs, wrinkling her nose at the strong smell of the aloe vera she adds as well. It’s a sticky mixture and usually not one she would grind. But the next ingredient is a small, dry rock, usually found in the adrenal glands of a demon whose name she can’t pronounce. Icky, yes, but very effective in healing surface wounds and scars.

“Now, the dittany.” She mumbles to herself, adding a pre-measured amount of the tiny flowers. “And a blessing.” She takes a deep, centering breath and says a prayer. Feeling the rush of magic go through her, Willow exhales. She’s done.

“Hope this works.” She takes the container with her newest creation and walks to the mirror on her side of the dorm.

Technically, it’s not fully her creation, the recipe was on a compendium for healing remedies from what she’s sure is the Middle Ages, the writing was so difficult to parse. But she added so many details to it, it might as well be her own invention. At this point, however, Willow is desperate. She has glaring, still angry-red marks on her neck, ones that will leave visible, permanent scars. More of them. She can glamour them away, as she has been for a little while now, but even the simplest magic takes some energy and concentration. Plus, she has to remember to reapply the glamour each morning.

It was an awkward day when she forgot to do so and Riley freaked out when he met up with her and Buffy after class. Now he knows about everything, because Buffy let the cat out of the bag last week with the Gentlemen, but at the time it was incredibly embarrassing. She and Buffy fumbled for a stupid, unbelievable excuse, that Riley begrudgingly accepted with a strange glint on his eyes. That she now knows was there because he’s familiar enough with vampire bite-marks to recognize them.

Willow glares at her wall-mirror, hanging cold and unsympathetic of the hideous image reflected on it, of a usually unremarkable girl turned poster-child for the dangers of barbecue forks. With tentative motions, she scoops some of the paste with her fingers and spreads it on the inflamed, scarred skin. The mixture is refreshing, and the aloe vera actually smothers the other smells enough it’s not an entirely unpleasant scent, though it’s so intense it makes her nose twitch.

Willow is winging it, so she overcompensates and spreads a healthy layer, which she intends to leave on overnight. Two previously cut, clean pieces of gauze are then carefully laid over her neck so that the paste doesn’t get all over her sheets.

The clicking sound of the dorm door opening startles Willow, but it’s just Buffy back from her patrol, grass on her blonde hair and a smear of dirt on her jeans, but otherwise unharmed.

“Hey.” She greets, throwing her stake carelessly in her closet, in the bag where her weapons live, before the smell catches up to her. “What is this?” Buffy turns to Willow, nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Sorry, Buffy, I will burn an incense.” Willow apologizes.

“That will make it worse.” The Slayer refuses, opening the windows. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, I was experimenting with a few ingredients, you know, for healing purposes. I guess it got a bit stinky, sorry. But I think this might work!” Willow finishes excitedly.

“Oh, okay. I hope it does.” Buffy smiles in support, then collects her pajamas and toiletries. “I will be right back. Some vamps got rowdy today.”

“Don’t they always?” Willow tidies up her spell ingredients and pours the rest of the paste into a glass container, if it works she may use it again.

“Ugh, unfortunately. I wish they would pay for my laundry, though, since it’s all their fault.”

Willow snorts.

“Yeah, and then they will start asking people if they can bite or not, instead of just going ahead and doing it.” If a small amount of anger slips into her tone by the end of it, Buffy has the grace not to comment. “No… no one else tonight?” Willow does casual very badly, but her friend is both used to it and sympathetic to her situation.

Buffy exhales, frustrated.

“He’s great at being somewhere else when I’m around with a stake that has his name written on it. Sorry, Wills, no sightings as of today.”

“Oh, that can be good. No one has seen him since… well, you know.” Willow awkwardly gestures to her neck. “Maybe he finally left.”

Buffy gives her a kind smile, one that makes Willow’s eyes drop before she turns back to the mirror to anxiously check that the gauze is still in place.

“Maybe.” Buffy breathes the word out, a hint of hope on her tone. She picks up her things and quickly leaves for a shower, a promise not to be away for too long as her parting words.

Willow tidies up her spell-ingredients, the practiced motions soothing. Keeping the gauze in place and undisturbed is difficult while she brushes her teeth and she wishes she had done it before. But all too soon she’s done with her routine and lying on her bed, waiting patiently for sleep to come while her neck tingles with the magic and the turmeric.

Thoughts swirl in her mind like wasps, stinging her and impossible to swat away. Unable of escaping them, Willow fidgets, turning this or that way, uncomfortable no matter the position she’s in. Her thoughts can be categorized by person these days, all of them smarting if she allows them any permanence. Oz, Xander, Buffy, Giles, Spike…

  
  


* * *

  
  


Morning arrives dark and dank, a phenomenon seen maybe thrice a year in Sunnydale. Willow’s walk to her classes is made miserable by her poor choice of footwear, her sandals becoming soggy from the puddles that litter the ground. Drizzle falls non-stop for the whole morning, making her hair fritz and her clothes permanently damp. After lunch, she stops by the dorm to put on sneakers, then drags her feet to the Magic-Box, promising herself a warm mocha for her troubles.

She’s walking towards the Espresso Pump when she hears heavy steps by her side, accompanied by a scent of cigarettes and leather that has her heart racing even as her brain scrambles to understand the impossibility of who it belongs to. He grabs her arm before she can flinch away, grip firm enough she knows it will be imprinted in purple the next day.

Spike smirks at her, ignoring the people milling on the street, unconcerned about walking in daylight, as if he does this every day.

“Don’t you just love days like this, pet?” His eyes, a lighter gray than the sky overhead, bore into hers. “It’s a real shame they don’t happen often around here. A bloke could get used to this, walking around in the day as if I’m just another one of you.” He tugs on her arm, directing her, and Willow scours the streets for a familiar face. There’s a family walking not five steps in front of them, and she can see the Magic-Box from here. A car goes sputtering by, and her frayed nerves make her jump at the sound.

“Calm down, kitten. There’s no Slayer around. You know very well that alerting these people will only condemn them to a quick death. And you, love, to a slow one.” It never fails to disturb Willow, how casually Spike delivers his threats. She remembers the way Angelus used to, voice heavy with the weight of his hatred. In her experience, most vamps growl theirs out. Not Spike. He delivers them with promise, intent, and a healthy dose of nonchalance. As if whatever choice Willow makes is of no consequence to him.

“Where are you taking me?” She opts to ask, instead. Her heart hammers away as he guides her through an alley, she has to scurry to keep up with his long strides.

“I want a little privacy. We won’t go far.” He promises.

“They will miss me. Someone will come!” Willow catches herself before saying more. It’s probably not a good idea to antagonize the violent vampire that’s currently kidnapping her.

He grins at her and Willow’s stomach plummets.

“I hope they do.”

He tugs her along for another couple of streets, then ducks into an alley so smelly Willow wrinkles her nose. Stopping at a dull, gray door that seemingly leads into an abandoned building, Spike knocks twice before kicking it open. She immediately understands why he sounded excited about the prospect of someone coming after her.

The main room of whatever building this used to be is littered with vampires, most asleep but a few awake and alert, sitting and lying in the various mattresses, couches and armchairs around the room. A female, propped near a boarded window, glares at Spike when they enter, gaze then sliding over Willow from top to bottom. She rises with cat-like grace and intercepts Spike, unafraid despite being a whole head shorter than him.

“That’s the Slayer’s little friend.” She says, unnecessarily. That attracts the attention of the other vampires, who stop what they were doing to watch.

With her stomach churning, Willow notices one of them just finished draining someone. The teen-looking vampire smirks when he catches her, throwing the body of the girl he murdered to the side like trash. The witch glances around again, wondering how many of the motionless bodies are slumbering vampires and how many are just dead.

“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze, Mariel. Now, bugger off.”

“You just forced us to move. Again. Even if you kill her, the Slayer will tear this town apart after her witch.” Willow can’t help but notice how beautiful the female vampire is. Ebony skin and perfectly drawn features, she catches herself feeling sorry for whoever she used to be.

“I don’t care what you, or the Slayer, do.”

“How did you get here?” One of the vamps sitting around asks, then shrinks when Mariel sends him a glare in response.

“Have you even looked outside? The daylight today tickles, kinda neat, really. You should be out getting something tender you can only find during business hours, instead you’re all huddled here like a bunch of ninnies.”

Mariel’s eyes narrow, but when Spike pulls Willow around her, she makes no move to stop him.

“Do me a favor and kill her quickly, Spike. You will help us move tonight if you want a place away from Harmony to crash.” Despite all the posturing and aggressiveness, Mariel’s words sound almost friendly. Spike doesn’t deign to answer her.

Willow’s quivering knees make it hard for her to accompany him, but his hold is unfaltering, making her bicep hurt so much her eyes fill with moisture. That is until she notices the young-looking vampire from before staring at her hungrily, smirking at her distress. Spike catches it too, and his answering growl is so effective the other vamp immediately shrinks away. His grip on her also gentles considerably.

Unwilling to evoke further violence just yet, she allows him to lead her down the dark corridor. It smells strongly of dust and faintly of mold, but the windows in the rooms must be so well covered there’s no light available to allow for human vision. She stumbles when Spike pulls her through one of the doors and all that stops her from crashing into the floor is the blonde vampire’s cold hand. By the sound of it, he kicks the door closed after they are through it.

Suddenly, he pushes her hard. Willow yelps, arms flailing until her back hits a soft surface. The sheets feel gritty and dirty, and her throat squeezes shut when the reality of where she’s lying hits her. A bed. The darkness is so impenetrable she can’t see even the shadow of Spike, but she feels his eyes on her. Yellow eyes, she imagines, studying his prey before he pounces.

“Take a deep breath, love, before you pass out.” His voice startles her half out of her skin, closer than she had guessed.

His words register and Willow realizes she’s hyperventilating. She tries to slow down her breathing, but the summed weight of her previous experiences with Spike, what she knows about him and the setting they are at presently collaborate to take her to new heights of terror. Spike has raped his victims before, dozens of them. There didn’t need to be any type of personal connection for him to torture some too. Sometimes for days, weeks, or months. Most of those happened under the tutelage of Angelus, but there have been cases in the last century as well.

She feels the bed move when he gets on, a knee settling to the side of her leg. She whimpers in fear, then squeaks when he grabs her by the armpits to drag her up the bed until she’s laying fully on it. His other knee then rests on the other side of her body and he sits on top of her thighs, effectively immobilizing her from the waist down. His fingers are stone-cold when they touch her face. She tries to turn away, but one of his hands holds her jaw to keep her face still while he runs soft, chilly fingers over her skin.

“Shh, calm down, love.” He shushes her, voice low, the pads of his fingers trailing the shape of her eyebrow, then sliding to her cheekbone, curving around her chin and lightly feeling the bow of her lips.

Willow squeezes her eyes closed against the darkness, in hope it will help with the oppressive fear suffocating her. She was never particularly afraid of the dark. The last time she needed a nightlight to sleep, she was 7. Something tells her that might change. Spike’s patience feels eternal. She wheezes in fear and he occupies himself with feeling her, as if each pass of his digits reveal some new information to him.

“Don’t want you to pass out.” His tone is quiet. He doesn’t stop his ministrations, paired with the occasional shushing sound, until Willow’s body is overwrought and exhausted enough that she can’t help but calm down. “Breathe now, in and out. That’s it, love.” He praises, his hand, warmed on her skin, slides from her face to rest over her chest, rising and falling with it.

“Why...what are you doing?” Willow forces her throat to work, confused by his restraint and wary of what comes next.

“You were terrified, pet. I’ve seen humans die of a heart attack with less. I can hear your heart, you know. This close, every single beat.” She’s too tired to jump when he rests his head over her chest, but the sudden move still makes her heart skip. “All that warm blood rushing away, too. Drusilla used to ramble that it’s a symphony, the loony chit. But maybe she just understood something I don’t.”

“It-it’s a good sound, right?” Willow’s voice is squeaky and shaky, but clear.

“Sure, pet.”

“You don’t want it to stop, then?” She meant it as an assertion, but it comes out as a slightly hopeful question.

Spike chuckles in response. With his head resting on her, she can feel the vibrations. He pulls back, the hand on her jaw sliding down to hold her neck. He doesn’t squeeze, but when Willow swallows she keenly feels the restriction. His thumb runs over her skin, stopping to rest on a specific spot where she knows he can feel the blood pumping just under the skin.

That’s when he pauses, body going completely still. Willow swallows again, realizing that he must have noticed only now. Her homemade remedy worked perfectly, so much so, in fact, it erased not only the scars that dotted her neck, but the moles and freckles as well. Every bit of skin it touched is pristine perfect as if it was never harmed by life. She figures if she could mass-produce it, she would be a billionaire in less than a decade.

“What did you do?” His voice is destitute of emotion, but she knows he must be furious. Vampires are highly territorial creatures and she purposefully erased his marks on her. “What. Did. You. Do. Witch?”

“Magic. Like witches do.” She answers, braver than she feels.

“Witches also burn at the stake. Would you be interested?” His response is knife-sharp and quick. He’s tense, still, and Willow can picture the struggle. He must be deciding what manner of horrible pain he will inflict on her as punishment.

“Actually, I almost was, one time. Last year, there were these demons that appeared as murdered children and they had this witchy mark on their hand, so all the parents thought they were killed by witches. And then my mom and all of the moms tried to burn us witches at the stake. And Buffy too, for some reason.” Willow babbles nervously, more and more surprised when she isn’t interrupted.

She feels Spike’s weight rest fully on her again, relaxed. Whatever he’s thinking, he must have decided on something.

“Your own mother tried to burn you alive?” He asks, nonplussed.

“Yep. She sure did. Then she conveniently forgot all about it, after Giles exposed the demons and broke their whammy.” Willow explains.

“This bloody town…” Spike’s words are so low they seem to be more for him than her, but Willow shares the sentiment. “I figure, you’re a witch. So you will do something to dust me, or to get away from me, but instead, you do the one thing that would make most vamps keep you alive for months of torture and let you die only when you are begging for it and so covered with bite marks you are disfigured.”

“That’s very colorful.” Willow weakly answers.

“It’s what I should do, too, but I have better things to do with my time. Besides, we can make it a race, pet.”

“A-a race?” She stutters nervously.

“I will make sure you have a few nice, deep marks today. You will do your best to take them away. Next time I will give you even more. How does that sound?” His tone is light and reasonable. If Willow were a puppy, her ears would perk up at it.

“If-if… I mean, if you give me just one bite, I won’t magic it away, I promise. It’s just there were too many and I-I didn’t know what to tell people and-aah!” Spike interrupts her by grabbing her head and bashing it down hard. If they were on the ground, her brains would spill out from the force he uses, but the soft surface of the bed grants her the mercy of being only terrified, but completely unharmed, after he stops.

“This isn’t a negotiation, Red. I won’t waste my time beating obedience into you because I would break that thick skull of yours before I got anything useful to stick. But you better stop trying to be funny. You either dust me, or you live by my rules, unless I decide you’re too much work to let live.”

“What makes you think I won’t?” Willow answers impulsively. “Dust you, I mean.” Her finish is weakened by the realization that she is as far from managing to fulfill her misplaced threat as she has ever been.

At least he doesn't laugh.

“You would if you could, pet. Being bit hurts. It’s not like in the books. It’s all sexy and dandy for me, but not for you. The only vamp I know who could enchant a human into liking it was Drusilla. And that’s a rare talent.” His hand leaves her neck to grip her jaw again, then he forces her head to the side, fully exposing her column of pale skin. “No, I think I will just do what I said I would. Give you back all the marks you took away.”

With that, he leans down, sharp teeth sinking into her like a knife into warm butter. She cries out at the pain, body squirming to get away, hands raising to push him. The witch struggles like a wild cat, bucking and screaming, scratching him where she can reach. Fed up, he pulls away. One punch to her face would shut her right up, get her as meek as a kitten. But her face is too pretty to mar, so he knees her on the stomach instead, hard enough to knock all breath out of her.

“Shut up. This is a house full of vampires and you’re screaming like a bloody banshee. They respect me, but if I can’t keep you in line, you’re fair game. Do you understand? They will pass you around to feed and shag until there’s nothing left.”

Her eyes are wide with fear and she’s panting, but she nods. He puts a hand over her mouth anyway, forcing her panicked breaths through her nose. It makes Willow feel like she will suffocate at any second, but she presses her eyes closed and tries not to struggle when Spike leans down and bites her again, hard.

It hurts terribly, sharply. The blood-loss and terror quickly make her feel sick to her stomach. The sounds he makes as he drinks are lewd, deep, pleased groans and a rumbling sound that reminds her of a purring growl. It takes so long, too. She has watched vampires drain people in seconds. But each time Spike drinks from her, the minutes drag on and on before he stops. Willow barely notices her own whimpering, afraid and in pain. Her tears register only as far as they sting her eyes before falling. Her world shrinks down to the weight pressing down on her and the sharp teeth buried in her throat.

She only realizes she had been clutching at the sheets when Spike pulls away to change their position. He slides a knee between her legs, forcing them open, then settles between them, pelvis to pelvis. Leaning down, he slides his arms under her, bringing her against him in a locked embrace until his face is on her shoulder. He surprises her then by turning his body around and settling against what must be the headboard, because his body relaxes and he’s sitting up with her on his lap.

Her hands clutch his shoulders, afraid he would let her fall. She shivers when he touches her back, a cool hand sliding down and then up again.

“Be a good girl and get that jacket off, pet.” He tells her. Trembling, Willow obeys, taking off her seldom-used quilted jacket. When his hands touch her again, chills run over her skin.

She sits on top of him, but she’s in no more control of the situation than she was before. In a way, it’s worse, because she doesn’t want to relax her weight on him, so her legs struggle with supporting as much of it as his grip on her body allows. He kisses her neck, licking the blood that is slowly dripping from his bites. Willow does her best not to flinch away. Her stomach is still cramping from his hit earlier. He inhales against her neck, deeply.

“Has anyone ever told you, love, that you smell incredible?” He breathes against her skin once more, savoring her scent. “Something sweet and something spicy, that’s what you are. Do you use anything vanilla scented?” He asks, it takes Willow a moment to realize it’s not a rhetorical question. “Do you?”

“I-I don’t think so.” She utters.

“Not for magics, either?” He presses on.

“Vanilla is mundane. Not magical.” She explains, confused.

“It smells very magical on you, love. A plain, sweet scent. But so very delicious, when it’s on your skin.” His lips trace a path from her neck up until they wrap around her earlobe, wet tongue licking it and sharp teeth lightly nibbling. Willow shivers, skin pebbling.

“I could just eat you up, pet.” He whispers right on her ear, voice dangerously seductive. “I can make you love it, too.” The wet, soft feeling of his tongue on her ear is both alien and wrong. He licks the outer shell unhurriedly, then slides almost inside, seemingly unworried about icky human secretions.

It’s too much for Willow, who flinches away even though the sensation isn’t anywhere near as bad as the pain his bites caused. Somehow, it’s harder to withstand. She can literally feel when he smiles because his face is pressed against her neck. The hand on her back slides down until it can slip under her shirt to rest against her skin, which he caresses softly.

Tears pool on her eyes, falling warm and wet against the vampire who causes them. There’s nothing she can do, no spell she can cast, no person she can call on. Never before in her life, not even as a 16-year-old, nerdy wall-flower, has Willow felt this helpless. She hates it, hates it so much it makes the blood in her veins hot right until the hopelessness catches up with her. Then, she feels empty.

Resigned, Willow falls limp against Spike. Sensing the change, the vampire stops his taunting, fangs sliding in her again to finish what he brought her here for. Her blood is as delectable as it has ever been. It makes his cock hard and his belly warm. He’s still filled with visions of all he can do to her body before murdering her and bringing her back. But he recognizes the point he has dragged her to. Push too hard now and she will break, the next time he takes her, she will be a different Willow.

Spike almost wishes she could appreciate how kind he has been to her. Simply thinking that word should be enough to make him heave, but it’s true. He plans to give her exactly one more bite mark than the three she erased, and he hasn’t marked her beyond that. At this point, the idea of actually killing her is as distant as the fantasies of doing it are present. She’s delicious, responsive, and beautiful. One night, he will turn her. But she can do with a couple more years to add to her beauty, to make her ripe for the plucking. And he loves the game.

Not breaking her. That’s Angelus’ game. Spike has other things in mind.

When he has taken enough blood that her heart slows down despite the fear, he stops. The bites are licked thoroughly and carefully until they stop bleeding on their own. He holds her against him, so warm, knowing she’s awake even as she remains completely lax. This time, he took a little less. He saw her trek to the hospital on their last encounter, how sickly she looked when she collapsed at the entrance, a team of nurses rushing to collect her when they noticed. The git she calls friend was useless, unable to support her weight, running to puke on a bush right as they arrived.

Maybe he drank too much from her and hit the boy too hard for him to take care of his witch. One of those two things he’s interested in fixing, for his own long-term gain. But there are still two things that need doing. He pulls away.

“That’s two bites on your lovely neck, pet.” He informs her. Then he leans forward, changing their position until she’s lying on the bed under him. “Two more to go. But since it’s such a hardship for you if they are so visible, I have an idea.”

“What..?” She starts saying, but he interrupts by pushing her shirt up over her breasts, exposing her light blue bra to his gaze.

She startles and tries to squirm away, struggle renewed yet again. So, not as close to breaking as he thought she was. It takes him 5 seconds to get her wrists on one hand and pin them above her head.

“No, please, no.” She cries to him, the smell of her tears scenting the air.

With a practical, almost economic motion he pulls the right cup of her bra down, exposing a soft, milky white breast. Her nipple hardens against the cold air, dark pink and delicate. He leans down to bite the smooth skin of her upper breast, but can’t resist a quick lick on that nipple. The way Willow’s litany of “please, no” keeps on, rising in pitch when she feels his tongue, gets him back on track.

Biting down on a nice, soft tit is one of his favorite things to do. Not as much blood comes out, but the flesh is so very tender and there’s an unnamed, subconscious craving that it sates. It also hurts more than most spots, the spongy meat under the skin frail and sensitive. Willow screams nice and long as he bites, so prettily he forgets all about the other vampires in the house and savors it. She’s crying heavily when he unlatches, sobs so strong they make her body shake. He licks at her wound until it’s closed, unable to resist the cute nipple right on his face, which he flickers and sucks lightly.

It takes an amount of self-control he didn’t know he had to pull away from her flesh, slide her bra back in place, and pull her shirt down. He licks his lips, studying the way her head is turned away from him, eyes closed and forehead frowning. So tense, she is. But Spike can be patient when it suits him. Now, it does, so he sits over her and waits, watching as her face slowly relaxes, her body goes limp, her breathing slows down. When her eyes open in the dark, he speaks.

“Just one more bite, love. Only because I promised you. If you erase these, next time, I will give you them all over again. And more.” He makes sure his voice is soft, tone firm but destitute of threat. The pain she now knows he can cause speaks for him, he doesn’t need to hammer it in by growling on her face.

“Now, be a good girl, and don’t move. I don’t want to break your arm, but I will if I have to. I’m gonna let go of your wrists now. Answer if you understand.” Spike waits for her head to turn towards his voice, eyes unseeing but landing somewhere around his face. She nods, then realizes he wanted a spoken answer and rushes to say yes. It’s endearing, her expression so sad, like a kicked puppy, but still somewhat eager to get an assignment right, as horrible as it may be.

“I need you to stay calm now, pet.” Is his last warning to her before his hands slide to the upper button of her jeans.

He can hear when her breath catches, feel the way her body tenses up. He pops the two buttons, slides down the zipper. The jeans aren’t too tight, but he still needs to remove them completely to get where he wants to. Spike isn’t ready for what greets him, however, the scent of her heady and so much stronger without the barrier of her thick jeans. Her body is ready for him, regardless of her feelings on the matter. It’s a defense mechanism, not true arousal, but the result is the same.

His mouth waters. He wants to lick the wet spot on her yellow panties and why should he deny himself? He’s evil. But he finishes removing her pants, one leg, then the other, pulling her shoes off on the way. Red is trembling so hard the whole bed is shaking with her. Her tights clench rhythmically around his hips and he knows she would close them tight if she could. Her hands are gripping the sheets, mouth half-open with labored breaths, hair spread on the sheets, burgundy in the dimness. If only she could see the picture she makes. Fearful and virginal, even though Spike knows she isn’t, dating a werewolf and such. No demon would leave a girl like this a virgin for long.

The core of her is so warm he can feel the heat coming off in waves. He resists the allure of her perfumed pussy, leaning down to kiss her smooth thigh instead. His tongue caresses the skin over her femoral artery, then moves along towards the inside of her thigh, so close to her core the scent of her makes him dizzy with want. He bites down then, eager to taste her blood.

The groan she lets out has him shuddering in pleasure. She, with her unwittingly sensual charms, all the more alluring for how unaware she is of them. He takes no more than a mouthful before he pulls back and licks at her skin until she stops bleeding. Panting for a breath he doesn’t need, he tears himself away from her, off the bed. He needs a smoke.

Willow sniffs quietly, blind and miserable, she closes her legs until the pain on her new bite makes her flinch. Then, she sits up and waits, doing her best to calm down. Her whole body throbs with pain, even her heart feels bruised from all the desperate beating it did today. She searches around for her coat, feeling cold and exposed.

Spike throws it to her, as well as her pants. The flame of his lighter nearly blinds Willow, but she catches a glimpse of his face. Then, there’s only the cigarette glow and the suffocating feeling of being locked in a room with someone smoking. She gets dressed as best as she can, fumbling in the dark.

“Can I go?” She asks after she’s done, more cheek left in her than he would have guessed.

“Feel free.” He offers, knowing she’s aware of the vampires between the room and the street who would love to nibble on her.

“Can you walk me out? Please?” Her eyes are big, focused on his face now that she has the reference of his cigarette.

He takes a deep drag of smoke.

“Just give me a minute, love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feedback is *very* appreciated ;)


	4. Chapter 4

He stalks the streets, boots pounding the concrete, unhurried but purposeful. Sunnydale’s main avenue is filled with people at this hour, lights gleaming in the open businesses, high-pitched chatter and laughter scratching his ears like a particularly annoying backdrop sound. He slows down as he strides past the corner of the coffee shop, full of people who seem to have no issue drinking caffeine at night.

Spike crosses the street and skulks towards a shadowy corner, leaning against a tree and pulling a cigarette and his Zippo from one of the many pockets of his duster. The corner of his mouth holds the cigarette, one hand flickers the lighter on, the other protects the flame from the wind. The motion is practiced and done within seconds. Blue eyes study something else, intently.

The big windows of the Magic-Box reveal the inside to anyone who would bother to look, and his vampiric eyesight assures an even greater range than most. There are the shelves filled with magical paraphernalia, most of it meaningless to him, to the right. The counter can be seen, a brunette girl Spike is semi-familiar with stands behind the crash register, counting green bills with a smile on her face. He can see the circular table the Slayer and her sidekicks tend to flock around, the git is sitting with his back to the entrance, the Watcher seems to be speaking to him, propped on the ladder that leads to the expensive books.

The Slayer is nowhere to be seen, which suits Spike just fine; when she isn’t too distracted by her hair, she can sometimes sense his presence nearby. There’s a tall, sandy-haired bloke sitting by the table as well, one Spike has identified as the Slayer’s new boy-toy. But the person he came to see is nowhere in sight. He checked her dorm already, finding neither her nor her roommate. His next stop will be the Summer’s house, but he figures she may be in the bathroom or just out of his sight. The chilly night wind carries her scent to him, though that might simply indicate that she was here earlier.

He’s rewarded by his patience when she saunters into the room from the storage space, an assortment of what he can only guess are spell ingredients balanced precariously on her arms. The Slayer’s boy-toy rushes to lighten her load when he sees her, earnest like a true country boy. Her answering smile is as sweet as a candied apple. Spike finishes his cigarette, stomping on it to smother its flame. Quickly, he lights up the next, wishing he was close enough to listen in to the conversation going on inside.

* * *

Willow sits beside Xander, helping Riley put the ingredients she gathered on the wooden table. Giles watches the proceedings with interest, stepping closer to study her picks. He takes the jar of Salamander eyes, turning it this and that way.

“These are nearly out of date. Why weren’t they displayed, Anya?” He inquires.

“You miscalculated the amount we ordered last time, so we got too many. They are non-returnable.” The ex-demon responds good-naturally.

Giles shoots her a brief glare, but doesn’t comment further. Instead, he turns to Willow.

“Do you think this is all you will need?” His tone is kind. Willow gives him the best smile she can muster.

“I think so.” She reassures him, though her hands are sweaty.

She feels a light touch on her back. Turning, she’s greeted by Riley’s concerned eyes.

“We can help you. If you would let me tell command about what has been going on, we could have that vampire in custody faster than whatever this spell is can work. You will be safe.” He tries, yet again, to convince Willow to let him help.

Out of respect for her and Buffy, he has submitted to their wishes to deal with the situation themselves. But it has gone long enough, in his opinion. If this doesn’t work, he will do what needs to be done, before it’s too late to save Willow. It’s also hard to understand why Willow is refusing his aid so utterly, he would like to think he has shown himself as nothing but friendly and dependable.

“Spike is really dangerous, Riley. Buffy is the best Slayer on record and she never managed to dust him. I don’t want you or your… troops, to be hurt.” She explains. After a small pause in which she chews on her lower lip, she continues. “But if this doesn’t work, then, I-I think you can try. With Buffy’s help. Okay?”

Satisfied with the compromise and reassured Willow is simply too sweet for her own good, Riley nods and steps back. He watches, leaning on the counter, as Giles and Willow work together to measure and separate the myriad of smelly and slimy ingredients they have, as well as some herbs he doesn’t recognize. It takes longer than he thought it would, and by the time Willow rises to draw a circle on the floor with sand, Riley is fully skeptical. There seems to be no logic he can identify in her actions, no reason he can muster as to why she needs a pentagram made of salt or why the sand that forms the circle is red. At least he understands that the four candles she sets down are for the cardinal directions.

She studies the display of ingredients carefully, eyes also analyzing the perfectly drawn circle. If nothing else, Riley can appreciate the attention to detail. With an agreeable nod from Giles, signaling all is ready, Willow takes a deep breath and raises a slender hand to her neck.

“Let the spell be ended.” She says, vanishing the glamour that hides the vampire marks.

They are both on the right side of her otherwise unblemished neck, two of them. Riley frowns, remembering the day after Professor Walsh’s class when he met up with her and Buffy. She had three then, and they looked different. These seem deeper, the teeth marks clearer, and both are still somewhat new, the skin around them pink. He grimaces at how painful it must have been to be bit like that. He watches, equal parts intrigued and cynical, as Willow starts mixing ingredients with measured, but fluid, movements. When she has her concoction ready, she turns to them, stepping into the circle to stand in the very middle of the pentagram.

Then, she starts.

* * *

  
  


Spike stomps out his sixth cigarette, eyes glued on the proceedings going on within the magic shop. Not being able to hear what has been said is annoying, and the obvious conclusion that Willow is doing magic gives rise to a nervous energy in him. There’s the possibility that she’s doing something to the detriment of one of the many other foes they come across, but the Slayer would be present if that were the case. A feeling as old as dirt makes itself known, the foreboding surety that this has something to do with him makes his insides squirm in warning. Perhaps his previous taunts about her magic were uncalled for. Maybe he gave her ideas that would have been best left alone.

He watches when the girl steps into the circle, hands cupping a granite mortar, the contents of which she scoops with slender fingers and spreads on her skin as she speaks. Spike stands outside, muscles tense with uncertainty as he tries to decide if he should simply storm the store and steal the witch once and for all. The Watcher is smart and experienced enough he could, if lucky, slow the vampire down for a few moments, and while Xander has shown himself incapable many times, he can also be lucky, as his continuous survival in the Hellmouth has shown. The Slayer’s boy-toy requires no consideration, his presence is negligible.

But then, he will have to move. Fast. Before the Slayer can catch wind of it. Because despite her cavalier attitude when faced with danger, she takes the safety of those close to her very seriously.

Instead of storming the place, cape swirling as he grabs the girl and rips the throat out of any idiot who tries to stop him, Spike stands outside a moment too long. There’s no flashing light to warn him, the decision is made and he is ready to carry it out when it happens. Willow’s mouth moves, pretty lips forming into a final world he can’t decipher, and she’s gone. Spike didn’t blink, but where she was just a second previously, there’s nothing.

“What the _bloody_ hell?!”

“Stalking really is _not_ the way to get the girl, or has no one ever taught you?”

The high-pitched mockery is all the warning the vampire gets. As he turns towards the Slayer’s voice, Spike is greeted by a punch so quick he doesn’t quite manage to evade it. She makes contact, but most of the force is dispelled by him moving with it. He’s faster when he jumps back and out of the reach of the strong, but diminutive form of the Slayer.

“Though, I guess, for you, stalking _is_ the only way to get the girl.” Buffy goes on, shrugging as if conceding the point to herself. “Pathetic, but it’s all you’ve got.” She concludes, glaring at him with not an ounce of amusement.

Spike figures his continued harassment of her best friend gets to her in that personal way nothing else he did before ever quite managed. It’s a side-victory he would usually be keen on, were he not busy being equal amounts furious and bewildered by what he just witnessed.

“What are you doing here?” Is his brilliant answer. He would kick himself, particularly when the Slayer’s eyebrows rise almost to her hairline in an ‘ _are you serious?_ ’ expression, but he’s dealing with deep, intense confusion at the moment.

“Okay, Spike, let’s do this quickly. I just fought off a whole nest and I’m not in the mood to put up with you longer than I have to.” She raises the stake he only now noticed her holding, eyes glimmering with that hungry fire for the kill.

The vampire has seen it enough times not to be particularly worried. Buffy, despite her air-head tendencies and blonde trollop looks, is a Slayer through and through. The one, and only, reason Spike hasn’t been dusted yet is because she can’t manage to. Equally, he would be forced to admit, the only reason she hasn’t been added to his very prided collection of slain Slayers is because he can’t kill her. He doesn’t fancy spending the next half-an-hour prancing around with her, not when there are more pressing things to do.

“What happened to her? Where is she?” He asks before the girl can charge at him.

The honesty in the question catches her off guard.

“Who? What?” Buffy says, confused.

“Red, what happened to the witch? She did some hocus-pocus just now and disappeared. Out of thin air. Like bloody smoke.” He explains, then starts to pace, both to burn some nervous energy and to bug the Slayer.

“Oh.” Is her answer, a look of realization coming over her face.

Spike stops to watch her, the way her eyes flicker to the Magic-Box window, peering inside.

“Oh!” She says again, still looking in through the window. Spike turns to see as well, but there’s no new information. No Willow, just the morons gathered around, talking. He can’t even detect the scent of the witch in the night air anymore. When he turns back to the Slayer, she’s grinning at him.

“What?” He asks.

“It’s time for you to go, Spike. Get lost. You won’t be laying a fang on Willow ever again.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about? As if you’ve managed to stop me so far, Slayer.” He shoots back, satisfied when her eyes narrow in anger, though her smirk doesn’t drop completely.

“I will admit it, you’re hard to kill, Spike. Like a weasel, really, just keeps slipping away. But it’s a matter of time. And now, you can’t touch Willow, so I have all the time I need.” She tells him, smugly. Then, she glances at the store again, eyes focused on something that, when he turns around, he can’t see.

A connection goes off in his brain. Suddenly, he understands.

“Red is invisible, that’s what she did.” He throws at the blonde, waiting for her reaction to confirm it for him.

Buffy just stands there and stares at him, unimpressed. Spike furrows his eyebrows, knowing he’s on the right track, but not quite there yet.

“That wouldn’t work as a long-term solution, though, would it? ‘Cause, it would be bloody inconvenient if Red had to live her life invisible. So, she found a way to make it only work on me.” He continues, knowing he’s getting closer by the way the Slayer clenches her jaw in annoyance. “Though that’s not great either, because I don’t need to see her. I can smell her, touch her, taste her.”

“Shut up, Spike. You can’t, that’s the bottom line. So now you can either choose to stay in Sunnydale until I dust you or you can let the door hit your ass on your way out-of-town.”

“Intangible it is, then. I literally can’t touch her. Now, that’s clever.” He concludes, satisfied it all makes sense. It’s also a very inconvenient outcome. It’s been less than a week since he last tasted Willow and the craving to do so again got so intense that he had to come looking for her.

Just as he has the puzzle solved in his mind, the Slayer charges at him again, frustrated with the conversation and probably still hot for a kill. He plays around with her for a few minutes, letting his anger at this new development power the hits he delivers. There’s a fire to her tonight as well, as if seeing Willow’s success gave her new breath. The fight ends at an impasse, as it always seems to, and when both of them are sufficiently pummeled, Spike skulks away into the shadows, rumbling thoughts on witches and magic swirling around in his brain.

Going against a magic-user is never a good idea. He hadn’t been particularly worried about Red until now, because she was a beginner and clearly unaware of the potential even he can smell on her. But while you can trust a Slayer to always be quick and strong, a witch that you meet a year later can have thrice as much power as before.

The vampire can deal with this hurdle, and he will. But he needs a permanent solution. Willow will get stronger, and soon, if she’s able to accomplish a spell as complex and powerful as the one she just did. It’s a matter of time until she can make good on her threat of dusting him. Spike can’t stand for that. There’s a closing window of time he needs to seize, though that doesn’t mean his previous plans must change completely. Either way, he has an idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No naughtiness, but still an important chapter. I decided to give the Magic Box to Giles early, just because. Let me know what you think, people.


	5. Chapter 5

Trudging down the grassed slope outside her dorm building, Willow hugs her too-thin, yellow cardigan to her body. She looks around apprehensively as the sound of leaves fluttering in the bushes nearby reminds her of the predators in the night that can still see her. She breathes in the crisp night air, struggling with the rationality of what she’s about to do.

The words leave her lips in a whisper, heard by her ears only before being lost to the wind. But she feels the magic pass through her when it’s done, leaving pebbled skin in its wake. Knowing it’s more likely that he will find her than the contrary, the witch keeps on walking, head lowered but eyes apprehensively following the shadows of the night around her.

This wasn’t an easy decision to make, and Xander is the one with the broken bones to prove it. Spike caught up with him the day before, merely two nights after Willow successfully accomplished her intangibility spell. No one blamed her for the attack, not even the filter-less ex-demon who calls herself Xander’s girlfriend. And she was so clearly distraught by his situation, blotchy-crying face and soiled tissues bunched between her hands while the doctor talked to them at the hospital. Willow, in a similar situation of ugly-crying, found then, for the first time, something to appreciate about her.

But Xander’s description of the incident when he finally woke up was enlightening. No one had to say the words to her, to spell it out so she would understand. It was clear enough that it was her fault. As well-intentioned as her actions were, they directly led to his 3 broken ribs and collapsed lung. Spike made sure Xander knew exactly what it was that got him the worst beating of his life.

She makes it as far as the college bar her hospital-bound friend spent a memorable week working at, up and running despite its role in almost getting a few pompous, self-important college students – and Willow – killed. The coffee shop at which they all nearly turned into extra-crispy bacon, however, remains boarded up and scorched around the edges. Even though she’s expecting it, Willow startles when she spots the shock of platinum blonde hair, closed followed by the unmistakable miasma of nicotine.

“Fancy seeing you here.” His greeting is casual, his stride easily matching hers even as Willow picks up her pace. She’s aware it’s pointless. But Spike lights up her danger sensors like a decked-up Christmas tree. Even when she goes looking for him.

He grabs her arm, bringing them both to a stop.

“Fancy seeing you at all.” His eyes narrow as his gaze studies her intently, from her wind-swept fiery hair to the bottom of her long skirt.

The yellow cardigan, in its distinctively offensive cheeriness, is not working for her. But Spike wonders if that isn’t the reason why she makes some of her dubious clothing choices. Also not smart for a Hellmouth, any beast can see her walking in the dim, empty streets from a mile away, late enough that even the adventurous youth eager to live out the stupor of alcohol and drugs has retreated from the curbs.

Her parlor is pale as usual, but her wind-bitten cheeks are wholesomely rosy. Accompanied by her dolefully down-turned lips and the way her eyes glare into his only to anxiously dart away, she makes for an endearingly self-sacrificial White Hat. Angelus would have her beaten bloody for that expression alone, on principle.

“Do you have something to say to me, pet?” Spike has always been the type to poke the bear just to see what it does in response.

“I-I won’t hide, anymore.” He’s disappointed by the defeat in her bearing, though not for long. “But if we are really doing this, there are rules! No going after Xander, or Buffy, or Giles, or anyone that might want to be my friend in the future, ever, okay? And-and, no naughty touching, like last time.”

Spike grins, her best attempt at a commanding tone reminding him of their first one-on-one confrontation at the factory. Such a meek little girl she was then, but she managed to put down her terms and get his drunk, broken-hearted self to listen. He still has her arm in his grasp, which he pulls to bring her closer.

“I don’t think I want to stop touching you.” He runs a finger down the side of her face, following the path of a runaway lock of hair, which he then pushes to the side. “You enjoyed last time so much, love. I could smell your wet cunt on me hours after you were gone.” He delights in her shock at his crass words, in the way she pulls her face away from his touch.

“Then, well, then... this won’t work! I won’t let you bite me anymore!” She has the gall to answer, to his amusement.

When she struggles to get away, he grips her hard enough that she grimaces, pulling her so close her body is pressed against his even as she stands rigidly, angling herself away from him.

“You aren’t _letting_ me do anything, little witch. Or have you already forgotten your childhood pal’s nice visit to the hospital? Would you like me to send the Watcher there to keep him company?” He leans down to plant a kiss on her neck, a soft caress incongruous with the promise of violence in his words. “And no thoughts about dusting me, love. Just because I enjoy living my unlife in solitude, doesn’t mean I can’t make some help when I want to. I have a whole nest of vamps eager for an excuse to do mayhem. Well, more of it. You’ve seen some of them.”

He pulls back just long enough to see her face, to make sure she understands what he’s telling her. The Slayer is untouchable, and Spike’s previous disinterest in anything but killing her afforded her gang of sidekicks the privilege of being mostly uninteresting. But things have changed. Spike wants something from Willow that isn’t quite as straightforward as murder. He’s not above maiming or killing some of her more squishy friends to make a point.

Satisfied with what he sees in her desolate green eyes, Spike leans down again, lips pausing to kiss her sweetly-scented neck. Willow, knowing what comes next, tenses in anticipation. Her heart stutters in her chest. There’s a wooden box by the curb, abandoned near a trash can. A piece of it is broken off, just the right size and shape for a makeshift stake. With his back to it, Spike can’t see when Willow focuses, brown furrowed with the most concentration she can muster. The piece of wood stutters on the way up, its shaky path mimicking the tremble in Willow’s hands.

Spike bites her then. She yelps, the power slipping from her grasp at her loss of focus. The wooden piece clatters on the ground audibly, just a couple of paces away from its target. Spike pulls back and looks behind curiously. His bloodied-smirk is far from the most graphic thing she has seen, but up there on the highly-disturbing-certain-nightmare-fodder list.

“Weren’t you listening, pet? Because I don’t mind going to the hospital to finish what I started. Would you like that?”

Willow quickly shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

Spike really should commit some violence now, to show the witch that while her friends might get the brunt of his retribution, there’s plenty of pain he can distill on her. But the girl is still bleeding and the smell of her incomparably enticing blood makes it hard for him to think about much else. His hand burrows in her hair, tilting her head back so he can have more access to her bleeding neck. He bites her again, and Willow clenches her jaw shut in an attempt to not scream. Spike retracts his fangs from her neck, lapping at the blood that swells instead of actively sucking. It’s considerably less painful, but all the more off-putting.

“But you will leave them alone? If-if I let... will you let them be?” The act of speaking with a vampire at her throat is terrifying, but Willow needs to hear the words. As untrustworthy as Spike is, as helpless as she’s against his threats, she needs at least that much.

“I’m a vamp of word. Me and mine won’t bother them, unless bothered first.” He pulls back to answer, nonchalantly licking his bloodied lips.

Willow is surprised when he leaves the encounter at that. As soon as he’s done licking the blood off his lips, he gives her a leer and disappears in the shadows. Though the bites hurt, Willow is barely light-headed. A faint scent of smoke follows her through the dark, silent streets as she makes her way back to the dorm. Even her dulled, human ears can pick up on the booted steps he seems not to be trying too hard to mask. She’s unsure what disturbs her more; the threats to hers and her friends’ lives, or the fact that Spike sticks around up until she gets into the college building.


End file.
